


Something Borrowed; Something You

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Don't Let The Tags Fool You This Is Safe For Work, Established Relationship, Kinktober 2019, Labels, Post-Canon, Post-Canon - Aged Up Characters, Suit Shopping, Wholesome Safe For Work Content In My Kinktober? Heck Yeah, formal wear, getting married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-11-24 16:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20910470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: Weddings don't scare Shirabu. He's been to several and was a groomsman at two. They're easy. He wears the clothes, follows the script, and goes home, back to regular life.Trying on yet another suit, he can't get his hands to stop shaking.





	Something Borrowed; Something You

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 4 - Prompt: Formal Wear

“Wedding.” The tie knots in Shirabu’s hands, and he unwraps it, starting over. “Marriage,” he tests the word out. “Engagement,” he says, but it tangles on his tongue, worse than the tie mangled around his fingers. Frustrated, he rips it off and throws it on the bench.

Semi glances up from his magazine. “Looks good.”

“I’m not wearing anything, dumbass.”

Semi flips the page. “Sexy.”

Shirabu picks up the frustrating tie. If anything, he could at least use it to strangle Semi. He loops it around, restarts, crosses and tucks it, and somehow he makes the knot even worse. Pride bristling, Shirabu mumbles, “Can you… help?”

Semi pauses. Setting down his magazine, he gestures at the full glory of his eye-burning orange Hawaiian shirt. “Do I look like I can help?”

“You suck.” Shirabu hangs his head in his hands. He runs through a mental list of who he can use to replace Semi, but with Ushijima playing volleyball in a different prefecture and Reon busy being a model husband and employee, he’s left with only Tendou and Hayato. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he knows Hayato must have gotten lost on the way there or forgotten the appointment entirely. Again.

“Husband.” The word sticks and slides clumsily across his tongue. “Spouse.”

Sighing, Semi stands. He looks horribly out of place surrounded by million-yen suits, but he examines a dark jacket without a care in the world. “I like the black one.”

“You disgusting e-boy.”

Semi rolls his eyes, but he tucks his hands behind his back, hiding his black painted nails. “I’m serious.” Sidestepping the jackets, he looks over the next rack of bridal wear. “You’d look good in something dark.” Under his breath, he mumbles, “It’d match your soul.”

Shirabu agrees, but he doesn’t tell Semi that. He looks at the clock again. The time ticks later and later, but there’s still no sign of Hayato.

A burgundy shirt smacks Shirabu’s face. Obediently, Shirabu stands and pulls it on. As he works the buttons closed, Semi appears with a midnight blazer, sliding it easily onto his shoulders. “There.” He straightens the lapels. “What do you think?”

Shirabu wrinkles his nose.

Throwing up his hands, Semi walks out of the room.

Shirabu sighs. The shop feels more intimidating when alone. The lights feel cold, clinical. Shirabu can pick out the distinguishing details on each suit, finding custom engraving on cuff links and handstitched embroidery, but the choices muddle into something meaningless.

A floor length mirror takes up the wall before him, divided in three parts. The burgundy and midnight pair together better than he expected from a match made by Semi, even with his skinny jeans. Shirabu smooths his hair back. He’ll have it cleaned up before the wedding, an undercut and side swept bangs. Semi will insist on covering the dark spots beneath his eyes with foundation, and Taichi will be the ever-invaluable friend who ties his tie for him, just as he did every day in high school.

He will look the part. The wedding will go without a hitch. He will be a… spouse.

Hands slide around his waist, pulling him against a warm chest. “You’re handsome,” Yahaba mumbles, his cheek smooshed against the side of Shirabu’s head. “Are you single?”

Shirabu leans into him. “That’s a terrible pick up line in general, but in a bridal shop? Really?”

“We’ve been over this.” He nuzzles into Shirabu’s neck. “Bridal shops sell just dresses.” In the mirror, Yahaba’s reflection shows he chose a light blazer. The gentle gray gives way to a crisp blue shirt, and when he releases Shirabu, he finds a simple black tie neatly knotted at his collar.

Circling around Shirabu, he tugs at his jacket, checking how it fits. “Is this what you’re get—”

“No.”

Yahaba pauses. “Are… you having second thoughts?”

“No,” Shirabu says, softer this time. He lets his gaze drift to the mirror. In its depths, he sees the two of them standing together. Their clothes don’t match. Yahaba put on the full suit, pants and all, and it makes Shirabu feel undressed in his skinny jeans, like he’s just a pretender trying to pass.

Retrieving Shirabu’s tie, Yahaba wraps it around his neck. He works slower than Taichi. The fabric weaves into a complex knot. He tenderly slides it up to his collar, making sure it’s not too tight before letting go.

Unable to help himself, Shirabu cards his fingers through Yahaba’s hair. Disheveling the once stylized curls, he cups his hand at the base of his neck, pushing him forward to press his forehead against his. Shirabu closes his eyes. “You ate all the free breath mints.”

“Sorry,” Yahaba says, but he sounds far from apologetic. His arms wrap around him, pulling Shirabu to sway gently with him to a silent dance. Shirabu leans his head on his shoulder, nose turned away from the overwhelming scent of peppermint.

“You,” Shirabu mumbles, “wouldn’t be terrible, to marry. I guess.”

“Not terrible, eh?”

“You’ll be horrible,” Shirabu amends, and he will be. He’ll steal mugs for harebrained memes about it being muggy outside, and he’ll decorate for Western holidays. He’ll drag Shirabu to every high school reunion despite the fact that they see their old teammates every other weekend. Shirabu’s speaker with be used to play abominable J-Pop songs, and there will never ever be enough orange juice in the house ever again with this juice maniac around. It will be a wretched way to live.

Shirabu can’t think of a better kind of life.

Straightening up, he pulls free from Yahaba’s grip and sits down on the bench. “Just pick something for me.”

Yahaba sits by him. “This.”

“What?”

“This.” Yahaba tugs his tie. “I like it. The shirt brings out your eyes.”

“But”—Shirabu gestures awkwardly between them—“we don’t match.”

Yahaba’s thumb slides beneath his chin, lifting his head. “Who said we have to?” He smiles, slow and fond, and when Shirabu doesn’t reply, he trails kisses from the top of his head down to his nose. “I know you don’t like labels or weddings or”—he motions at the store around them.

“I want to make this easy on you. Tell me what you like. What you don’t like. What you’re okay with.”

“You.” Yahaba’s thumb is still beneath his chin, and when he tilts his head down, Yahaba’s knuckles come up, close enough for Shirabu to press a kiss to his fingers. “I’m okay with you.”

“I’m okay with you, too.”

“What…” Shirabu looks away. “What are we?” The words taste stupid, brewed from the stupid bubbly feeling in his stomach that both flutters and stings.

“Handsome,” Yahaba says. Shirabu pinches him.

Leaning back, Yahaba considers his question more seriously, brow furrowing. “We’re engaged. We’re gonna be married.”

“Married,” Shirabu repeats, but the word doesn’t sound as reassuring as when Yahaba says it. “Husbands?”

He shrugs. “If you want.”

Shirabu frowns. It’s a legal term. Women become wives, and men become husbands. It’s an unchallenged tradition. Yet, like a tag in his shirt, the label chafes his skin.

“Can I be your husband?” Yahaba asks suddenly. It’s the same question he’s asked before—“boyfriend” being neatly replaced by the next label on the relationship status list—back when he was nervous and hopeful and stuttering over his own words at a graduation ceremony for a school he didn’t attend. Now, it carries a different kind of weight. It’s heavier, scarier, but Yahaba delivers it with the same tone he would use to ask to change the television channel.

This time, Shirabu doesn’t have to think about it. “Yes.” Boyfriend. Husband. Anything. As long as he’s by Shirabu's side.

Yahaba smiles. “And you’ll be my Shirabu.”

“Yeah.” Shirabu leans into him. “I like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> In the hallway, Semi accepts a hundred yen from a grumbling Hayato and smirks. "Told you he'd like the burgandy."


End file.
